Swan Dive - Jeremiah Healy Read online

  "I know. And Teri was there?"

  "Yeah. Oh, not hooking or anything, the Parker House’d never stand for that. No, she was just having a drink at the bar, and some salesman with a garment bag under his stool was kind of hitting on her, and she sees me and drops him to come over and say hi."

  Chris took a deep breath. "Christ, John, you shoulda seen her. Beautiful, like somebody’s dream of what a woman should look like. The legs, not like . . .anyway, we started talking and drinking and I lost track of the time, and next thing I know we’re in the Barry, and then all I know is that I feel like a man. For the first time in years, I feel like a fucking god."

  “You kept on seeing her after that?"

  "Yeah. Once, maybe twice a month. Always down there."

  "Even at that, must have gotten kind of expensive."

  "Oh, no. She wouldn’t . . . look, I didn’t have any stars in my eyes or nothing. I knew what she was doing for a living. But since I had helped that once, when she didn’t know her way around, she . . . she saw me for free. Her pimp didn’t care what she did free-lance, and Teri knew about Eleni, the MS and all."

  "That night. I’ve got a pretty good idea what happened, but I’d like to hear it from you."

  Chris tilted forward in the chair, working his hands like a man lathering with washroom liquid soap. "I went to the bar association social, but with things not going so good for me, professionally speaking, I figured the cocktail time would be a better chance for getting some business than the dinner itself. You know, happy hour, you can move around, work the room a little, but at dinner, you’re stuck with whoever’s next to you or across the table. So, I was going to duck out after the drinks anyway, the fire alarm thing just gave me the perfect excuse for leaving."

  "You were planning to meet Teri that night?"

  "Yeah, she even called me here, which she never did, called me from somewheres, insistent-like that I be there and on time. That she wanted to . . . wanted to try something different. So I got there all right, on time."

  "You knew the room number?"

  "Teri had some kind of arrangement with the hotel. I never asked, nobody there knew me from Adam and I wanted to keep it that way. But she was always in the same room, with the good view."

  "What happened?"

  "I knocked, she opened up, she was wearing . . . one of those teddy things, you know? All lace and black and see-through. Usually, we’d have a drink, talk a little first. This time, she wants me to come right over to the bed, maybe five feet from the closet there. The Barry, it’s so old, they still got real closets you can walk into, and the door’s open maybe three inches. Well, she’s got some kind of Walkman thing she wants me to put on. I think it’s screwy, but she’d said she wanted to try something different, so I went along. It was like piano and lute or something, just continuous instrumental shit."

  "To cover any background noise you might have heard."

  Chris looked down. "That hit me later. Anyway, she puts these earphones on me, has me hold the little tape thing, and she undresses me. Slowly, kissing me and rubbing against me, everywhere, with everything. Then she . . . she takes me into her mouth, and goes wild on me. Jeez, John, all the other times with her, she never did anything that made me feel like that. I was saying things, I don’t know what I was saying, but every time I’d go to turn, or try to touch her, she’d nudge me back, sort of sideways to the closet."

  "For the camera angle."

  Chris just continued. "As I’m . . . getting ready to finish, the closet door bangs open and there’s Marsh, dressed in nothing but skivvies and some kinda doctors’ gloves. I can see a camera on a tripod thing behind him, and he’s smiling and holding a gun on me. I thought I was gonna shit."

  "What happened then?"

  "Teri jumps up and starts screaming at him. Something like, ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you? You’re fucking up my screen test.' He’s moving around the bed toward the window, kind of getting away from her but also kind of . . . I know this sounds weird, John, but kind of like he was trying to look at everything from a different angle, like he was trying to figure out if he shoulda had the camera somewheres else."

  "Go on."

  "Well, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, my brain’s just about dead. Then he waves the gun at me and says to get down on the floor, at the foot of the bed. On all fours, like . . . like some kind of animal. So I do, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do, what the fuck is going on."

  “What’s Teri doing all this time?"

  "She’s still screaming at him. He yells back. ‘This fuckhead wants my house. Well, he ain’t gonna get it. What he’s gonna get is sorry he ever tried to fuck with me. How do you suppose his wife will like your debut?' That’s the word he used, too, ‘debut,' like he’d thought all this through and planned out his speech."

  "What did Teri say to that?"

  "She went crazy. She said something like, ‘You bastard! You didn’t say nothing about that. You just said we needed an ordinary guy for the porn people.' Marsh says to her, ‘You stupid cunt, you’d believe rain ain’t wet.' "

  "Then what?"

  "Then . . . " Chris dropped his head till all that kept his jaw from his chest were the chins underneath. "Then she said, ‘Well, you ain’t doing this with me,' all defiant-like, then she stomped up and across the bed, and made to go in the closet, like after the camera. And Marsh, that, that . . . pig says, ‘Even better,' and shoots her. I mean, he just points and

  shoots, no warning or nothing."

  Chris paused, and I thought about Holt, playing me along. Marsh was wearing the gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and to fool a later paraffin test on his hands. Which means that since Marsh fired the gun with the gloves on, there would have been evidence of that on the gloves themselves. Which Holt conveniently neglected to tell me.

  Chris said, "You sure you want to hear all of this?"

  “Yes."

  He closed his eyes, but continued. "I go crazy, I mean, I’m already down on all fours, and he’s treating me like shit and just shot the girl and probably’s gonna shoot me. So I come up in a three-point stance, John, like back on the team, and I go at him, pumping like the coach said, all with the legs, not the head, the legs. I’m watching his stomach, so I can hit him solid, I don’t see his face, but I pop him good and hard and I hear the gun go off again but I don’t feel nothing and then I realize glass is breaking and I look up and he’s . . . he’s not there anymore." Chris shook his head vigorously, as though groggy after an impact.

  "The window’s broken and he’s gone."

  "You left the gun there, Chris. My gun."

  He opened his eyes and raised his hand. "John, I swear to God, I didn’t know that. He didn’t say nothing about it. And, anyway, I thought it went out the window with him."

  "What did you do next?"

  "I went over to Teri, to see if she was . . . but she was dead. Jeez, John, I could see her brains, like they were leaking .... In the closet, he’s got the camera, some clothes, and a suitcase. All I was thinking is, ‘He’s got me on tape,' but I don’t know nothing about those cameras, so I just yanked out the suitcase and opened it up. He had some kinda camera case in there, but it was closed and I didn’t care, I just wanted to get out. I pulled his clothes off the hanger, hers too, I think, and I stuffed the clothes, the camera, and everything in the suitcase. I think I must have busted the legs on the tripod just to make it lit. I closed up the suitcase and threw my clothes on and got the hell out. I heard the elevator moving, so I used the stairs, but by the time I’d gone down maybe five flights I was breathing so hard I was afraid I’d pass out, so I went back into the hall on whatever floor it was and took the elevator back down to the lobby. Nobody was in it by then, I guess everybody was out and around the corner, gawking at the body. I just walked out and kept walking till I got to my car."

  "What did you do with the suitcase‘?"

  “I put it in the trunk and started driving, driving home, I mean.
When I got partway, I realized I’d have to get rid of it, so I stopped at Revere Beach, the stretch with the wicked riptide. I ran out onto the sand with the thing and waited for two big beauties to roll in together, in the moonlight you could see them real clear. Then I heaved it as far as I could. It rode out but it floated at first. Jeez, John, I never fucking thought of that, it was so heavy, with the camera and all. But then it sank, lower and lower as it washed out, till I couldn’t see it anymore, even with the moon. Then I went back to the car and drove home."

  "Chris, you’re the lawyer, but it seems to me that what happened in the room was self-defense. Why did you pack and run like that?"

  "John, jeez, look at things the way they are, willya? I’m with a prostitute, and she gets shot, and I send the guy through the window. You think they’re gonna believe me?"

  “Maybe."

  "So okay, so even if they do, the truth’s worse than a good lie. I lose my ticket, John. The Overseers have to pull my license, which is the only thing I got going for me. Also, the truth is that I’m everything that Eleni hates the most, the Greek husband who whores around, the difference being that she didn’t just let herself go or something, she’s sick and crippled in a way she can’t control."

  I stood up. "Chris, like I said, you’re the lawyer. There are a lot of people screwed up in this, including me. You and I both know what you’ve got to do."

  Chris brought the heels of his hands to his cheeks, then started rubbing under the eyes. “Right," he said quietly.

  * * *

  I drove toward Boston, finding it harder and harder to accept what Chris had told me. I parked the car behind the condo and walked the two blocks to Daisy Buchanan’s, a popular sports bar on the corner of Fairfield and Newbury. I got there just early enough to get a seat, and I knew the bartenders who were on. They had some good new stories I hadn’t heard, and the screwdrivers felt healthy as they raced one another down my throat and jostled in my stomach.

  At some point, I had to wave for another drink, surprising because they’re usually so attentive, the best in the city. I remember telling them that, that they were the best in the city. One asked me if I was walking or driving, and I sort of said walking. He said even so, just one more. I finished the drink, then had the pleasure of being escorted gently through the crowd of postcollege jocks and those who wished they were. They spared me the bouncer, telling me to be sure to come again. Place treats you with respect like that, of course you’re going to come again.

  I ricocheted off three trees and a lamppost covering the roughly two hundred yards back to the condo. Anybody messing with me would have been one sorry fella, yessir. I got the keys out of the pocket on the third try and into the lock on the fourth, doing a little better upstairs at the apartment door. I kicked it shut, made it to the bedroom, and passed out across the mattress.

  TWENTY -FOUR

  -♦-

  I woke up Saturday morning, but just barely. The clock part of the radio said 11:40, meaning I must have slept through an hour’s worth of alarm earlier. The head pounded, and my insides had that airy, rafting sensation you get from drinking on an empty stomach. I had no energy for running, so I toasted a couple of English muffins and drank a quart of ice water to rehydrate my system.

  I showered, shaved, and dressed in clean sweatclothes, then went down to the car, started up, and drove to the Jamaicaway and around the trout pond. When I was with Empire, I did a lot of driving, and I found it could clear the head and focus the thinking. After five miles, my thinking was focused all right, but not helpfully.

  My talk with Chris solved the killings, but Hanna and Vickie were left hanging in the breeze. Felicia had the money to buy off J.J ., but Chris sure didn’t and was on his way to definite disgrace and probable imprisonment. J.J. wouldn’t understand why his drugs were backstroking to Portugal, and the cops weren’t interested in restraining him.

  I jammed on the brakes just in time to avoid a guy in a utility truck cutting into my lane. I hit the horn, and he threw me the finger as he turned, without any other signal, into a construction project. As I resumed speed, I watched him jounce over the rutted dirt driveway past some huge circular pipe sections that looked awfully familiar. I got my bearings and realized it was the same place J.J. and Terdell had taken me on Tuesday night.

  That’s when I got the idea. An idea that grew like Topsy.

  * * *

  It took me a while to measure time and distance by car. I ran each twice, then got back to the condo by 3:00. I dialed two numbers and got slightly different versions of "He’s not here, you wanna leave a message?" I emphasized how important it was for each party to be available to hear from me at 8:00 PM. I hung up and removed the phone jack from the wall to frustrate any premature return calls. Raiding the fridge, I ate all the absorptive foods I had. Then I nicked the nearly empty bottle of scotch from my landlord’s liquor cabinet. I don’t drink the stuff anymore, but it has a very recognizable smell. I carried the bottle down to the car.

  * * *

  The first place I hit was a foundering blue-collar bar in Chelsea, the city just above Boston that those in favor of the manifest destiny of gentrification now call the "Near North Shore." I had three screwdrivers, listening to the owner describe the trouble he was having with his stepson. When I asked how bad he was, the owner said, "Let me put it this way: he’s the kinda kid, you saw his face on the side of a milk carton, you wouldn’t feel so bad." I convinced him that it was the lawyers’ fault, helping kids avoid juvenile detention and making them think they can get away with murder.

  Next stop was a glitzy joint along the water in Revere, where a porky bartender with slicked-back hair and no sideburns told me I couldn’t get in after six dressed the way I was. I explained to him that it was because of the lawyers, especially the young ones, pushing their noses into good old neighborhoods that had stood on their own for six generations. He agreed, treating me to one drink but then telling me I sounded like I’d already had enough for one afternoon. I thanked him for the drink if not the advice, and left. The third place was a sticky-floored dive in Lynn, a city that’s suffered so much arson that it’s probably burned down three times over in the last ten years. The old woman working the wipe cloth said the flames nearly got her place twice, and she couldn’t get no insurance and what the hell was she gonna do if they did torch it, anyway? I pointed out to her how the lawyers had manipulated it all, padding claims and sucking off what good people sweat their lives to get. She joined me in splitting half a bottle of Old Boston vodka on the rocks; I was able to dollop most of my share onto the floor when she wasn’t looking. Exaggerating my departure, I gave her a kiss on the cheek that made her cackle. She said that I’d better watch for the cops if I was driving.

  I edged another two miles north and parked on the beach at Nahant for two hours, watching an elderly couple and three kids, maybe grandchildren, move at the different paces of age along the waterline, stooping and whooping over shells and driftwood. I started up again, skipping Swampscott and driving straight into Marblehead. I stopped at a pay phone at 7:55 and made both my calls. Each man was in and eager to hear from me. I sounded as drunk as I could, giving the second one directions just opposite of those I gave the first. I told one good luck and the other to fuck off I made a third call, too, but when I heard the voice I wanted, I just hung up.

  I spent the next hour as obviously as possible in a neighborhood bar on a street three blocks from the harbor. I grossed out two nice women just because I found out they were legal secretaries. The bartender and a waiter had no trouble hustling me out the door, though I did threaten them with immediate and costly legal action.

  I got back to the car and climbed in the driver’s side. Reaching under the seat, I retrieved the scotch. I swished a bit like mouthwash around the teeth and tongue and sprinkled the rest on the sweatshirt. I tossed the bottle into an ash can and took a couple of deep breaths. Then I walked to Felicia Arnold’s house.

  She answered
the door with the same "Yes?" as she had the phone. I leered at her and told her she was beautiful. She scowled, and I asked if that wimp Troller was there. I asked rather loudly, and that brought Paulie-boy at a trot. He told me to shove off I asked him if he thought he was man enough to make me.

  Paulie let fly, and for the next three minutes or so, he probably felt he was beating me to death.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  -♦-

  For a while there, I thought I was going to have trouble with the Marblehead police. Not because of Felicia or Paul, who magnanimously told the two uniforms who responded to the scene that they didn’t care to press charges. Not even for drunk driving, since the cops hadn’t found me near my car. No, the problem was that the younger officer wanted to take me to the hospital. For observation and tests. Like a blood test, which would reveal my suspiciously low alcohol level. Fortunately, however, the older and cooler head prevailed, saying he’d "seen more guys beat up than Carter had Little Liver Pills, and this guy’s just got his pride hurt, is all."

  I contritely gave the older cop Murphy’s name and office number in Boston to call to vouch for me. They drove me to their station and let me flop for the night in the holding cell, complete with sea breeze. It was nearly 6:00 A.M. Sunday, with a whole new shift on, when Holt and Guinness showed up.

  * * *

  "You know, Lieutenant, I’ve always wondered. Does every department order its interrogation rooms from the same catalog?"

  Holt’s eyelids had to stretch to climb down over his eyes, they were that bloodshot. Guinness made grumbling noises behind a huge Styrofoam cup of coffee in the corner. He hadn’t offered me any.